JACK: Our fight will fade, yours will too. There’s no stoppage to the stoppage of allthings, all evil will cease with time, so what’s the point? The sun will rise on the day we chooseto die, it’ll set too unaware of the significance of the day. The sun will rise one day to find thatit’s […]
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I lung for that pollen sneezin’, sticky car seatin’, Atlanta heat, but it ain’t enough I’m tryin to return to the black I was always supposed to be before the belly of history regurgitated me I want that same wavy sun over the equator of Africa Ugandan, Kenyan, Somalian, I want to be black mixed
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“Diaspores” A broken clothesline leans against its shadow nothing to hang memories on through the stillness of the desert landscape I meander fragrance of creosote bush underfoot dry winds blow clockwise shifting transverse ridges of sand In the distance a prickly pear cactus tempts the coyote despite needles the coyote consumes its fruit spreading seeds
“Diaspores”, “Portrait at the Border”, and “The Seedling” Read More »
Till death do us part,for as long as we both shall live,She and He vowed. [1] Papermaps for each of the stamps in Their new passports. First time flyers, squeezing shut theireyes andeach other’s armswith every turbulent drop, souls movedby ospitalità italiana,we haven’t left but when can wecome back? [2] Cottononesies with twirling green elephants
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“J’y suis, j’y reste”(Here I am, here I stay) Across the cerulean chasm of id,I press the pincers of my forlorn self-pity& bitter disappointment to set aboutwith ritualistic seppuku—their wakizashi forged from anihilistic meteorite reeved inthe rictus-grin of atmospheric immolation. Separation is an illusion.Yet, when I dare slip away foran hour or two from conscious
prologue :: the roots have & to hold A man holds his still-beating heart in hand. He wonders how many repetitions make something true. He cannot remember how he got here, when he began cradling that most important self outside of him, arms outstretched so the veins don’t tangle. He needs circularity. What comes in
…but you won’t hear me talk about any ‘divine feminine’ i don’t know her. and anyone who likes to define femininity by someone’s guts doesn’t make a lick of sense. there’s nothing pretty about the way a pad feels if you don’t know, it feels like sweating from your asshole what? if bukowski can say
“Becoming one of those people who writes poetry about their menstrual cycle” Read More »
I was eating breakfast when my sister came into the kitchen without her skin. I stopped chewing mid-crunch—cornflakes and milk dribbling from my mouth. I couldn’t stop staring. While my mother yelled and my sister defended her stance, I stared at the raw meat that made her body, the twitching muscles and tendons. White bone
By Invitation Only Just when you think you can hear beyondthe mowers and raw hum of trafficto the sounding in high tree tops of the hermit thrush,when you think the bougainvillea’s shades have deepened overnightto wine hues, and the scent of oleander smacksthe sultry hour with its powdered perfume,and just as you feel you are
The Baseball Lesson in August Wilson’s Fences Baseball can teach you the cruelest of lessons, just like America.Josh Gibson could hit farther and better than any ballplayerThere ever was, white or black.Better than even Babe Ruth,And certainly Jackie Robinson, but it don’t matter,Because America is as unfair as a broken foul pole. I done see
